


alone, together.

by r3zuri



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Culture Shock, Food Issues, Gen, Loneliness, Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29295120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r3zuri/pseuds/r3zuri
Summary: Din always ate alone. This was the Way.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Bo-Katan Kryze, Din Djarin & Boba Fett, Din Djarin & Food, Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda
Comments: 38
Kudos: 174
Collections: Noromo Mando: Mandalorian Genfics Collection





	alone, together.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to yell at me here or on [Tumblr](https://fake-starwars-fan.tumblr.com) about all the things Din would find Weird As Fuck™ about cultural norms outside of what he grew up with in the Covert. I love comments. Lay `em on me.
> 
> Also, did you know that buy'cé is pronounced similarly to to the French word _bouche_ (mouth)? This amuses me, given the topic of this fic. (And yeah, I added some _accent aigu_ to the Mando'a. Could not wrap my brain around the pronunciation otherwise).

As a rule, the members of his Covert always ~~eat~~... _ate_ alone. They would line up outside the galley for their daily allotment of rations, their laughter and conversation never boisterous for fear of gaining the attention of those above-ground. Once served, they would retreat to the privacy of their individual living quarters with their meals, and the whisper of muted conversations gently tapered off as the line grew shorter. 

Eating was a time of solitude, of rest and reflection. To be thankful to have lived to fight another day, and for the continued survival of the Covert. 

This was the Way.

Din has sat with others while _they_ eat, of course. As one of the Covert’s most successful providers, and thus one of the few allowed above-ground, he has regular dealings with aruétiisé—non-Mandalorians, who do not know the Way. 

It feels embarrassingly intimate at first, to sit with someone as they consume their meal, watching teeth grotesquely exposed between each bite. He has never felt so out of place, and it is hard to reconcile that feeling with the knowledge that Before, as a child, he must have considered such things normal.

Over time it gets easier. He refuses offers of food and drink by rote, assures others that he doesn’t consider them rude for eating in front of him while he may not. He in turn learns that it is considered rude of _him_ to say that he values silence over whatever it is they supposedly gain by talking when they’re meant to be _eating._

Aruétiisé are strange, but to them he is the strange one.

Bo-Katan offers to buy him a drink.

Him. A _drink_.

He almost refuses, still feeling wrong-footed from their initial meeting and suddenly very homesick for the familiarity of his lost Covert. The words ‘cult of religious zealots’ hang heavy in the air between them. 

But the needs of the child far outweigh whatever misgivings he has. Whether these people are dar’manda or not might be debatable, but _Din_ still abides by the Creed and therefor he is unable to snub someone who has now saved his life and the life of a foundling twice. 

He agrees to follow them to the tavern. 

The second-in-command stares him down while she eats. He’s not sure what he finds more unnerving: the fact that he knows the colour of her eyes and the way she styles her hair, or the slow slither of a tentacle across her cheek as it disappears into her mouth.

Eating in front of the kid is unavoidable. 

They live in close quarters aboard the Razor Crest, with next to no privacy. Din has learned by now that the little womp rat gets up to no good the second he’s out of sight, so eating alone in the cockpit is out of the question. They take their meals together, and have done so for months.

Still, Din has not spoken the ritual words of adoption—and will not until he knows he has exhausted all avenues of finding the kid’s people—so he cannot let him see his face. This is the Way, but it means he has to get creative when it comes to eating. 

But if the kid happens to catch a glimpse of a smile before it’s obscured by Din’s hand as he raises his cup to drink, well… no one has to know.

It’s Fett who finds Din, after, sitting in the far corner of an enormous mess hall in the depths of Bo-Katan’s new light cruiser.

He doesn’t remember leaving the control room, and can’t recall how he got here. He only knows that he needed to be somewhere alone, somewhere quiet. ~~His buy’cé~~... the helmet is resting on the table in front of him, cold and impassive. It’s only when he turns to regard the new presence in the room that he realizes he’s been staring at it for a long time; the after-image of the T-visor lingers on the inside of his eyes when he blinks. 

Wordlessly, Fett reaches out to brush aside the handle of the Darksaber, away from the helmet where Din had laid it almost as an afterthought, and sets two glasses down on the table in its place. He pours something dark and golden-brown into both of them before inviting himself to sit on the bench beside Din.

“Corellian Whisky,” he says, giving the heavy glass decanter a triumphant little shake before also setting it off to the side. “Found it in one of the officers lounges on our way through.”

Din stares at him, too exhausted in body and numb in spirit to reply.

Fett’s answering gaze is even, unwavering. He nudges one of the glasses further in Din’s direction, and if Din had any fight left in him he would just get up and walk away, find a new hiding place to wallow in— _alone_ , like he intended. But he doesn’t, or can’t, and so he raises the glass to his lips, hesitating only a second before taking a gulp—

And very nearly chokes on it. He’s never had alcohol before, and it burns his throat in an extremely unpleasant yet entirely welcome way. Fett slaps him on the back twice as he coughs, hard, and then waits for Din to stop sputtering. When Din can finally breathe again he squints at him, eyes watering, and it’s only then that Fett raises his own glass in a silent request.

It takes a second for Din to realize he knows what this is. He’s seen this before in the countless number of bars and taverns and restaurants he’s sat in over the years, people-watching but never participating. He knows what he’s meant to do, he just… never thought he’d ever get to do it.

(Why would he? One doesn’t typically envision a future where your life comes crashing down around you and you’ve given up everything that made you who you are)

Fett nods, imperceptibly, and Din thinks he sees understanding in his eyes. He wonders in that moment what his own eyes must look like, whether the grief inside of him is being broadcast as clearly and acutely as he feels. 

He hopes not. He doesn’t want to think about being seen. Doesn’t want to imagine what he looked like to Grogu as he was being carried away, returning home in a way that Din had fantasized about when _he_ was a foundling. He feels like a stranger in his own skin, an imposter sitting bare-faced in the company of another living being, with no child, a weapon he doesn’t want, and a terrible drink in hand that he realizes he actually intends to finish.

So instead of thinking about it, he raises his glass and clinks it against Fett’s, and then together they down what’s left. 

And if there are tears on Din’s face afterward, they both pretend it’s from the lingering sting of the whisky.

**Author's Note:**

> Deleted Scene:
> 
> It’s only after crash-landing on an ice planet, nearly losing his life and ship to giant spiders, and now settling in for the last leg of what is shaping up to be the Worst Job Ever that he realizes he never got to taste any of the _kriffing_ Krayt Dragon meat.


End file.
